Pilots are supposed to sound unflappable. Our sounds flapped.
We’re an hour out of JFK. I can feel the plane going into its descent.
But on the interactive map I see the nose of the airplane icon turning eastward, like we’re going to London instead of Long Island.
Silence from the cockpit.
Then, an announcement: New York’s airports are closed. Bad weather. We’re going to have to circle.
The pilot’s tone does not inspire confidence.
The icon swings around, like a car hanging a U-ey on a dead-end street. Now that we’re again pointed north, I take heart.
Then the icon’s nose angles right again. No! Another U-turn.
The pilot says nothing.
The flight attendants say they know nothing.
Then the pilot says we’re low on fuel and might have to land in Philly.
Then he says we’ll be in New York in a half hour.
But then I see the little nose angle slightly leftward. “We’re going to Philly,” I say.
The slight left becomes a hard left. “We’re going to Philly,” the pilot says.
He doesn’t know if we’re going to stay on the plane or get off the plane.
Then he says if we get off we won’t be able to get back on.
Then he says we’ll have to get off.
He doesn’t know if we’ll be getting back on. But if we do get back on the plane, he won’t be flying it: He and his co-pilot have timed out. He doesn’t know if the airline will be able to find another crew.
Inside the terminal, a gate agent invites the milling crowd to sit. We’re too agitated.
Then another gate agent tells the still-milling crowd that hotel vouchers will be emailed to us so we can head toward the hotel shuttles.
We head toward the hotel shuttles.
No email.
No email.
No email.
Voucher or no voucher, we book a room. While we wait for the shuttle, someone from our flight tells us they gave out paper vouchers at the gate. We can’t go back in, wouldn’t if we could.
At the hotel, we’re third in line to check in. The first couple (Jamaica to Cleveland) has a voucher. The desk person doesn’t know how to process vouchers.
Twenty minutes pass. It’s almost midnight. I close my eyes and pretend I’m a horse, able to sleep standing up.
I can’t close my ears and have to hear two Long Islanders (Fort Lauderdale to Islip) complain, not just about their diverted flight, but about everything that’s wrong with the world today. They never go into The City, they say, because of the crime. All the tourists are being murdered, they say. Literally, they say.
We check in. We sleep. We have New York-to-State College Megabus tickets in the afternoon, but we have no intention of getting back on a plane to New York. We’ll figure out how to get from Philly to State College in the morning. If this were 1974 instead of 2024, we’d hitchhike.
In the morning, for laughs, I check flights to State College: almost $800 for a one-way ticket. Hilarious.
I check Megabus from Philly. Nada.
I check one-way car rentals from the airport: about $250.
I check one-way car rentals from the train station: about $100 cheaper.
Then I remember that precious resource, the Penn State faculty listserv. Bingo: five ride offers. two from people we know.
- One says the car will be crowded and they’re not sure when they’re leaving.
- The princely Matt McAllister says he’s about to leave Staten Island. Diverting to Philly would add an hour to his drive. Too kind.
- The other three won’t be leaving until later in the afternoon.
We thank all our would-be benefactors, book a car out of 30th Street Station and Uber on over. If this were a civilized country, we say as we traverse this mighty monument to rail transport, we could chug our way home. Sigh.
We drive. Snow squalls. We argue about whether we should pull over. We push on. Highlight: chocolate shake at the Red Rabbit.
Home: The furnace is dead.
Garage: The car is dead.
We consider our options: Bunk with the neighbors? The hotel down the street? Keep the rental car?
It’s now Sunday evening. An on-call technician comes to look at our furnace. Our friend Rhonda picks me up at the airport when I turn in the rental.
After an hour’s work, the tech resuscitates the furnace. By 10 p.m., the house is warm enough to remove my coat.
In the morning, AAA jump-starts my car. I drive it to my mechanic to have the battery charged. Normality resumes.
I always tell students in my column-writing class: You’re only allowed to write about your vacation if everything goes kablooey.
My vacation was fabulous. Then, kablooey.
These are the times that try middle-class men’s souls. At the price of a few hundred bucks and a few phone calls, order has been restored, a lesson in forbearance and yes, gratitude, received.
